


in the night garden

by Mercia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Also fyi i literally named this after a children's show sooo, Angst, Awesome Sarah Rogers, Blood and Gore, Childhood, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kid Loki (Marvel), Kid Steve Rogers, Loki (Marvel)'s Lips Sewn Shut, Mild Gore, Pre WWII, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, She's a GIFT, Time Travel, Whump, idk how else to explain the ages, mentions of poverty, sorry - Freeform, tw abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-02-24 16:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercia/pseuds/Mercia
Summary: The first time Steve sees Loki he throws up. And, hilariously (or not so hilariously really) it is also perhaps the first time it isn't because of his pathetically weak immune system.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The first time Steve sees Loki he throws up. And, hilariously (or not so hilariously _really_ ) it is also perhaps the first time it isn't because of his pathetically weak immune system.

 

Steve is thirteen at the time and the boy looks about the same age as him if not a tad younger and is wearing this fine looking costume and even though it ain't Halloween he can still appreciate it. It looks like it's made of money even if it's a little torn up and dirty - adds to the effect he supposes. Also, if Steve was a sexist asshat he'd say it's the kind of thing that'd make a lady swoon, and not in the good way. In the what the ever loving hell curse word curse word did I just see kind of way. But Steve is not a sexist asshat so instead _he_ swoons, if only for a brief few seconds.

 

A moment later and the boy is this close to his face, _this_ meaning about the distance of a small hand away, and Steve sees it even closer and, okay. Actually, he's being unrealistic. And stupid. That can't be real, right? That is _so_ fake. Obviously. Of course.

 

Because there is a thin, silver twine weaving through the boys thin lips, sewn shut and pulled taut.

 

It's probably just some damn good make up skills, right? Like _daaamn._ There's even blood and pus and discolouration and signs of infection. Maybe there's one of those new science-fiction conventions on today? They've only just became a thing so they were pretty boring that time Bucky and he'd sneaked into one. Like, that could totally be from a comic book right? Totally.

 

He's about to give a little compliment for it and an apology for fainting so suddenly except he has to look at him to talk to him cos mama always said it was rude not to so he turns and-

 

It looks painful.

 

(Which is what he would day if he was going for _understatement of the damn universe._ )

 

Steve let's out a string of expletives his mother should never dream of him saying, promptly throws his head to the side and vomits up the soup and that expensive frosted donut that Bucky bought him for lunch. _Damn_.

 

The boy wrinkles his nose in distaste and backs off a little to avoid any splash. Ugh, gross. Steve spits out the taste of stomach acid and gargles some water, spitting again for good measure.

 

"Sorry about that." He says awkwardly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, seriously gross but also kind of refreshing given that this isn't because he's ill - wow. Also, what do you say to someone with their lips sewn shut and whom you can't even make eye contact with without hurling? Briefly, and only briefly cos he's not heartless, he considers  awkwardly backing the hell out of the situation and trying to forget it. Except he's not and mama would kill him if she ever found out he didn't help someone with their damn lips sewn shut. Like seriously, that kind of thing doesn't happen to people in real life.

 

The boy is giving him the creeps though, with the staring, even if he's not exactly any better, so he kind of just freezes and stutters on his own spit. Well done Rogers.

 

Eventually, the boy turns around, shoulders slumped, and begins to walk away. It takes a long half-minute for Steve to find his tongue and his feet but somehow he starts running after him.

 

"Hey! Hey wait!" And gosh darn it, he's a damn asthmatic! He wasn't designed for this!

 

To the boy's credit though, he isn't running away, just a fast walker and good _God_ is Steve slow.

 

"Hey!"

 

Soon enough, and thank the Lord and all his angels because Steve needs a minute or twenty, he stops and turns, frowning. In just a few seconds he's next to Steve and pulling his weight onto his shoulders as though he's not the one with the serious and disturbing injury. Steve wheezes shallowly as the boy leads them over to the side of a building to sit with surprising strength.

 

After a while, okay a very long while, Steve finds his breath. The boy is staring at him again, except this time it looks questioning as well as concerned.

 

"Um," Steve begins eloquently, "can I... You look... Do you need help? My -uh- mom's a nurse. I'm Steve by the way." He says holding out his hand.

 

The boy looks at it suspiciously and back at him, tilting his head.

 

"Um you're supposed to shake it?"

 

Apparently this is not a very clear instruction cos two seconds later the boy has his -Steve's- hand in both his -the boy's- hands - which have these thick heavy cuffs on them by the way, did he mention that?- and shakes his hand rather literally. Steve pulls his hand back.

 

"Actually, you know what, never mind." And Steve's heard of abused or neglected kids before, not knowing social cues and the like but this is just _extreme_. And Steve has enough sympathy not to embarrass the guy. Clearly, having it rough is an understatement. A freaking massive one.

 

There's another awkward pause as Steve struggles to unscramble his thoughts and also what now? Obviously the boy needs help but also Steve is a stranger and he doesn't want to scare him. "Look, can I, uh, bring you to my house? As I said, my Ma's a nurse and I really think you should get looked at. You can nod if you want."

 

The boy looks like he's about to disagree but to his surprise and relief, nods slowly, hesitantly, so slight Steve isn't sure if it's there at all. But it is, so Steve gives the boy a gentle smile and stands up. He gives him a napkin for his mouth as to not draw so much attention and leads the way. Steve trying to fill the silence with a one-sided prattle of mundane stupid things and trying not to look at his mouth. Oh god, his _mouth_.

 

"It's only about an hour to walk back. I've no money for  a bus fare, sorry. Mom's getting off early today so she'll be home by the time we're back. She's great, my mom. One of the best I reckon. But she worries about me n' Bucky too much. Bucky's my best friend by the way. Good looking, got dames falling off his shoulders and smart. Dunno how I got to be his friend, pity I reckon." Steve also reckons he'd be plugging his ears with cotton if he had to listen to himself, except the boy actually looks like he's genuinely listening. Which is nice. It feels nice to be listened to.

 

It's around half six when they get home to the Rogers' stuffy one bedroom rental, and Steve is right, his Ma is already home and the smell of a good fish stew is wafting through him, warming him up and he's already salivating.

 

"Hey Ma! I'm home!" He calls from the door, pulling his boots off and placing them by the door. He's about to tell his guest to do the same except he realises the boy isn't actually wearing any shoes and almost curses again cos he can't imagine walking down Brooklyn without shoes. That's nasty. And probably sore considering how much trash and broken glass litters it.

 

"Hey honey, I'm in the kitchen!"

 

Steve sits him down on the sofa-bed his mom sleeps on and tells him to stay put.

 

"I'm gonna go get my mom and she's gonna help you, okay?" A nod. And Steve is out of there having a very quick conversation with himself about how the hell he's gonna explain this to his mom when he already wants to bleach his eyes out.

 

Sarah Rogers is in the kitchen cutting a few slices of bread to go with the stew and Steve has never felt so queasy.

 

"Um Ma..." How to put this... "I need you help in the living room with something. Someone, actually."

 

His Ma turns, that worried expression slipping on so easily, "Of course, sweetheart. What is it?"

 

He gulps. Better to just get it over with. Rip off the band-aid clean. "I found this boy on the street earlier and he really needs some medical help. There are-" and for some reason he can't say it without bile rising in his throat. "It's probably best you go see for yourself."

 

She sighs carefully, not exasperated or anything, just tired. She's always tired. Never too tired, no never that, just tired. "Lead the way and get my medical kit." She says and she's still tired but she's also determined. She turns off the stove but puts the lid on the pot with stew, and closes the bread box before following him out into the living/her sleeping area.

 

She gasps when she sees him, perhaps petrified. She does not, however, faint and Steve respects his mom all the more for it. She's like the most bad ass angel he's ever met (which might make him half bad ass angel and that's pretty cool too).

 

"Oh my... You _poor boy_." She says, slowly coming to sit down beside the boy. "Steve, get my kit. _Now_."

 

And Sarah Rogers works in the TB unit, not damn A&E and she could give them a run for their money with this. Easily. Because what kind of sick _fuck_ tortures a _kid_? What kind of monster _sews someone's mouth shut_? And God he looks smaller than her Steve who's smaller than most. Maybe about ten or something. No more than twelve certainly. Steve returns a few seconds later with her green box full of medical supplies and taps her on the shoulder, and she realises she's shaking.

 

Deep breaths. This is no time to be unprofessional.

 

She moves methodically and tries not to think about anything but the process: pulling on her gloves, grabbing an antiseptic wipe and lightly sapping away at the mixture of blood and pus and saliva, making comforting sounds and warnings about it hurting.

 

Not that it helps much. It probably already hurts judging by the boy's weakly muffled whimpers. Probably.

 

Then, carefully, she snips at the strings. Or tries to rather, because they aren't cutting. She tries again for several minutes with wire cutters before giving up. There has to be _something_. They just look like thin metal wires after all. If only she could just _melt_ … "Steve," she says eventually, keeping her tone as even as she can," get me the matches under the sink "

 

"You can't be-"

 

" _Steve_." She repeats, frustrated. And it isn't fair, she shouldn't take this out on him. But it works and he goes and gets the bloody matches. She turns to the boy, her heart breaking for him. "I'm so sorry about this. It's going to hurt, really badly okay? And I'm going to need you to stay still. Can you do that?"

 

His eyes dart about wildly and frightened like a hunted animal, and he's breathing too quickly and looks ready to bolt, and there's so much blood. So, so much blood.

 

"I'm Sarah, by the way." She says in an attempt at some sort of comfort. "It's all going to be okay."

 

Steve returns with the matches, pale and shaky, and Sarah tells him to sit down. Carefully, she strikes a match and tries to ignore the way the child visibly flinches and tells Steve to hold him still, just in case. The boy doesn't thrash about or anything, but she can tell he wants to. 

 

The matches actually do work. Which is good. But not before the silver thread glows a hot orange and holds for a good minute, melting away like wax; there's a faint sizzle as it dribbles down his chin and dissolves in spiked sparks and steam. She feels the burning heat radiating onto her fingers and a few stray drops catch on the backs of her gloved hands eating like acid through to her skin. She winces but doesn't flinch. _She can't._ The boy is closing his eyes and there are tears and she's surprised they didn't come sooner. It gets worse when she gets her tweezers to actually pull the bits of braided silvery twine out and the whimpers turn to quiet screeches.

 

Never let it be said that Sarah Rogers does not have a murderous bone in her body, cos right now she wants to slaughter whoever did this.

 

The whole process takes just over half an hour _(wire after wire after wire afterwirewirewirewireWIRE)_ and by the time she's finished the boy is exhausted so she let's him sleep. Walking back over to the kitchen to finish that stew and process what just happened.

 

It's a good stew as well, just the right ratio of salt to pepper and a good balance of fishiness that isn't overpowering. The bread is good too, sure it's three days old so it's starting to get stale, but it's still good enough and has some seeds in it which is a nice touch.

 

(And oh god, he probably hasn't eaten anything. How is he even _alive?_ The wounds look at least three days old!)

 

She grabs a mug and spoons in mostly the soupy base and mashes up some of the fish and plops a straw inside, cos she'll be damned if she'll let a kid go hungry in her home.

 

She and Steve eat in silence around their small dining table, both too shocked to say anything. Which is probably for the best if they don't wanna wake up their guest.

 

Until he starts actually screaming and she can't quite make the words but a lot of it sounds like " _sorry_ " and " _please_ " it makes everything a whole lot worse which shouldn't be possible.

 

And Steve looks so scared and he's only thirteen - damn it - and he shouldn't have to see any of this.

 

She gets up and moves quietly and quickly, and gently holds him down cos he's going to hurt himself like this. "Hey," she says slowly, "hey it's okay. It's just a dream."

 

Which is probably only a half-truth. Sure right now it's just a dream, but to this child it's probably a reality.

 

Eventually, his eyes open, gaze fluttering and unseeing until he finally focusses on her face.

 

"You gonna be okay there?" A stupid question, really, but also a necessary one.

 

A nod. Lie.

 

"When was the last time you ate or drank anything?"

 

He holds up three fingers.

 

"Three days ago?"

 

He nods again. How is he still alive? He needs it immediately.

 

"I know your lips still hurt," another nod, " but we have to get some food in you. I've got some mashed up stew for you and I'll get you some water." He hesitates, and seems to think before nodding slowly. Good. Force-feeding doesn't bode well with her at all.

 

She gets up and Steve offers to get the water, and escape she thinks, and by the time they get back, the boy looks ready to snooze again, which isn't a good sign.

 

"Hey, don't sleep. We need to feed you." She chides kindly. He startles but nods, settling back down into the couch. Steve gives him the water first, which he sucks at greedily and he hurries to get more. Watching him have at the stew is actually quite flattering, because his whole expression lights up at the taste and he moans appreciatively.

 

Steve's mother tucks him into bed that night, something she hasn't done for years unless he's sick. It's nice, or it would be if he didn't know it's probably because of the kid in the room over that whimpers in his sleep and had his lips sewn together less than five hours ago.

 

Best to try not to think about it.

 

The very next day Steve has school and mom has work which they both can't miss because Steve has one of those assessments and Ma has - well she has to earn money. He almost forgets until he walks into the living room and there he is. But _whatever_. So they leave the boy on the couch and Steve fills up the largest jug with water and a straw and puts the leftover stew in a flask with a teaspoon, whilst Sarah Rogers works out the cricks in her neck from sleeping on the carpet the whole night.

 

The boy's mouth does start look better already though. Still sore, undoubtedly so, but better. He wonders where the boy will go after. If he'll even be there when Steve gets home (he hopes so). And, doesn’t the boy need to go to school to? Steve will have to leave at around half past seven, so he wakes the boy up just before. Mom's already left for work and he's just waiting on Bucky to get here so they can walk together.

 

The boy looks confused when he wakes up, bright green eyes glancing around suspiciously, taking in everything, scanning for dangers as though it's not unusual for him to wake up in strange places. Those eyes settle on Steve, all intense and piercing and Steve fights the impulse to shy away from a little kid. Instead, he places what he hopes to be a welcoming smile on his face and holds out a glass of water. Recognition eventually filters onto his face and he returns the smile (only smaller cause he can see it hurts to do so) and greedily sucks up the water.

 

"I'm gonna be leaving for school soon so are you alright to stay here by yourself?"

 

He gives a small nod and raises an eyebrow as if to say ' _I'm a kid not stupid, stupid_.' which is conveyed with surprising accuracy for a ten year old (which is the age Steve's mom thinks he is).

 

"Okay. Good." Just in time, because for some reason God has blessed his best friend with such envious good timing, Bucky presses the buzzer from downstairs. "I've gotta be headin' out now. Mom's left a flask of that stew yesterday, so if you wanna, help yourself." The boy nods happily, pleased. Steve thinks he liked mom's cooking - hardly surprising, everyone does. He promises to be back by five and leaves, locking the door as the boy waves goodbye. At least he knows how to wave.

 

Steve grins when he goes to meet Bucky, pleased with himself, and Bucky quirks a brow at him. "What's got you in such a fine mood? We've got that test thing today. Or don't tell me you forgot, or worse - revised." he finishes with an overdramatic shudder.

 

"I made a friend." Steve shrugs, his tone boastful even though he's struggling to stretch his steps to keep up with Bucky's.

 

"Oh yeah?" And the cocky ass actually smirks. "What's his name then?"

 

Steve points a sharp elbow into his gut. Fricking _jerk_.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BOO.
> 
> ...surprise?

The Boy (for lack of any actual name) is still there when Steve comes home from school that day, much to his relief. He doesn't want to imagine what might've happened to the kid if he went back out into the streets, or worse — wherever the hell he was before. And Steve reckons he's allowed to say 'hell' in this particular context.

Admittedly, somehow Steve managed to forget about The Boy until the end of the day, where the sudden recollection of him (prompted by Bucky's smartass "can't wait to meet that imaginary friend of yours,") had triggered a near heart attack and then a near asthma attack (but miraculously not a real one, somehow) from his mad dash home. Luckily, by the time he arrives at the top of the stairs, Steve still seems to be breathing, and allows himself a minute or two to catch his breath before he enters the flat. 

It seems the Boy is asleep, though, so Steve slips off his shoes quietly as he can and tiptoes about, mostly just doing menial tasks like putting the dishes into the sink to wash later, and putting his books away, and getting changed out of his school clothes and into his much more comfy pyjamas. Speaking of which, he’s reminded that The Boy is still in his  _ fancy _ clothes from yesterday, and as expensive as they look, they can't be too comfortable. Especially not in the state they're in.(And  _ especially _ not in the state  _ he’s _ in.)

He hasn't got many clothes to spare, but he has enough to scrounge together up somethings. An old, cornflower blue cotton shirt, a little worn but fine enough. The flannel pyjama bottoms he got from the church's Christmas donation event two years back. A randomly coupled pair of woollen socks. He can hardly let his guest and Ma's patient sleep in rags now, right? This is, at least, somewhat of a step up.

The Boy is still this time as he's sleeping, not at all like last night where it seemed he’d have been better-rested conscious. It reminds Steve of the few time he’s slept over at Bucky’s whilst Mr. Barnes had been home between deployments — less like one of his childish nightmares, and more something else. Like now, it doesn't even look as though he's breathing. Stone still and curled into a tight ball, shoulders drawn in stiff as wax, as though trying to hide from the monsters rather than fighting them, like yesterday.

Steve is sitting on the ground next to the couch, idly sketching some of the scenes he passes by on his way to school every day, when The Boy wakes up.

"Hi," says Steve after a pause.

The Boy visibly swallows before speaking. "Hello."

He has an accent, The Boy. He can't quite figure it out, though. It sounds foreign but not obviously so. Like a sorta 'from everywhere' accent. It's weird. Not bad weird, mind, but enough to make note of it.

"Ma's still at work," Steve begins explaining, though nobody has asked, and stops himself from rambling and talking The Boy’s ear off like the day before, even if it’s to keep his mind off something like The Boy wincing when his lips move. He's plenty good at prattling like that to distract. "She usually gets home around half past nine. 'Cept yesterday, for some reason. Ya hungry at all?"

The Boy hesitates a second, before slowly shaking his head.

"No, thank you."

Steve frowns, even though he can hardly talk. "Geez, you're all skin an' bones, and that's me saying it. Sure you can't stomach a bit of something? We've still got a bit of yesterday's stew left, if you want."

He waits patiently for The Boy to answer. The Boy is looking at him carefully, and Steve tries his best not to get creeped out by it. He's just a kid after all! The Boy's eyes are narrowed, ever so slightly, sharp green and focused, as though looking for something on Steve's face. He swallows again.

"Okay," says the Boy, finally. "If you would like."

“Here,” Steve adds, plopping the bundle of clothes he’s gathered onto the Boy’s lap. He probably should have folded them. “Try these on, would you? I’ll go heat up some food while you change.”

Putting his sketchbook and charcoals aside, Steve shoots up, almost scrambling away to the kitchen.

It's not as though he's trying to escape or anything,  _ per se _ . It's just that Steve feels awkward, and other than Bucky, Steve almost never has company, so he isn’t very good at this, and The Boy is just not the most comfortable of people to be around — for obvious reasons. Which is a horrible thing to think, him being abused and all, but it's been a long day, and Steve would just rather not unpack all that right now. So if he can avoid it, (save it for later at least!) then he will.

The stove they have in the kitchen is an old one, so it's slow and takes a few tries to get switched on properly. But it's enough, and it's what they can afford, Steve being an expensive kid and all.

There's just enough stew left for the two of them and a portion for Ma when she gets back later. Steve drums his fingers on the counter as he waits for the stew to start bubbling, anxious. Stuff like this always tastes better the next day as well.

It's around seven now, so he's been home for just about two hours. He's got homework and stuff to do, but there's probably more important things to be doing. There's usually something more important than homework, if he's honest. Like, say, finding out The Boy's name. Cos he's not gonna go back to Bucky without still knowing The Boy's name.

A jarring thought flashes through his mind suddenly, and Steve almost has to shake it outta himself. His mind flits back to the images of thin lips stitched tightly, hemmed together, like some sorta creepy homemade ragdoll. Or how he didn't know how to shake his damn hand.

What if he doesn't  _ have _ a name?

_ Of  _ course _ he has a name _ , Steve tells himself sharply.  _ What kinda kid doesn't have a damn  _ name _?! _

_ What kinda kid has his lips sewn shut?  _ A stupid voice in Steve's head fires back.

_ Shut up _ , thinks Steve, and tries really hard not to think of it at all.

The bread is probably too stale to eat soft now, so Steve decides to toast it just a bit. It'll be good to feed the Boy something solid at last.

Once the stew is bubbling away, it's aroma spreading through the room and into the next, he ladies it into some smaller bowls. He only has two hands, though, so he puts the bowls on a tray along with the toast and carries it all out and plops it onto their dining table.

The Boy follows without question.

Without all those layers, just in Steve’s old threads, The Boy seems even smaller. He’s skinny and lanky-looking, and his shoulders are hunched over. There’s a clamminess to his skin which has faded blotches of greenish-yellow and some darker purple bruises around his wrists and, disturbingly, throat. And he’s shivering.

There are other things, too, but Steve trains his eyes to stop. 

He's very quiet, The Boy, but it's understandable. He is essentially in a strangers house, two of them, both older than him, so at quite a disadvantage, (The Boy is even smaller than Steve, even if it's just by a few inches) so of course he'd be wary. And coming from whatever situation he was in before...

"You can start eating, if you want," says Steve, because The Boy has not moved to eat yet, and rather has just been alternating between looking at the food ravenously and giving short, narrow-eyed glances towards Steve.

He gives a short jerky nod and hesitates for a moment more, but as soon as his fingers grasp the spoon, he eats quicker than he's ever seen Bucky after one of his boxing practices and cleans the plate just as thoroughly as Bucky would.

"So," starts Steve awkwardly in between his own mouthful of stew. "You — um... Have you gotta name or...?"

The Boy looks at Steve for a second, as though not comprehending the question fully. Maybe he's not too fluent or something. That's not too uncommon around these parts. He's got enough English to get by, at least it seemed like it.

But the Boy does speak, eventually. "You don't know my..." He begins, looking startled and a little indignant, actually, and mutters something to himself which sounds like  _ "mortals" _ which doesn't make a lot of sense to Steve so he ignores it. He's scowling a little, though.

"What?" prompts Steve, drawing himself further in over the table. He's almost finished his portion, now.

The Boy shakes his head dismissively. "Loki," he says, firmly. "Of  _ Asgard." _

"Of  _ what _ ?"

" _ Prince _ Loki," the Boy adds. And then peers expectantly at Steve as if Steve is supposed to know what he's on about. "Of Asgard."

Steve does not.

"Okay,” he replies.

 

* * *

 

It takes a little while to figure out he's on Midgard — it's almost embarrassing. It's hardly his fault, though. Midgard refer to themselves as many different names,  _ Earth, America, Europe, New York,  _ and almost never "Midgard."

Midgard is, as they say, a backwater realm, primitive and  _ dirty _ . But it's not as bad as he imagined it to be, and not at  _ all _ like the Elders on Asgard described it. Most people live in tall metal boxes, cramped and rising to its muggy grey sky, instead of the holes dug into hills on the ground as Father once described it to Thor and him. And they are civilized, albeit only so far as most common-folk are civilized. There are also so  _ many _ of them.

When the boy, Steve, and his mother, Sarah, had left for school and work this morning (and where was the father? Military perhaps? Or lost already?) Loki had scrambled over to the tiny window, looking out and watching all the people milling about. All rushing to and fro, children and elderly alike, some on foot and others on two-wheel, peddling contraptions, weaving in and around.

Every so often, a great big metal box would stop by, traveling on bigger wheels, a horseless carriage of some sort (are there no horses or even cattle on Midgard?) and some pedestrians would pat their pockets and hand the coachman paper and board.

It was fascinating.

And hectic.

Too dangerous for Loki to leave the Lady Sarah and Steve's household, especially with the cuffs still binding his magic.

Midgardians, Loki concludes, though individually do not seem as loud as Aesir, their numbers make up for it, and the city even now has at least a background rumble.

It's still better, though.

"What's Asgard?" asks Steve, and Loki almost falls out of his seat. He wonders if all Midgardians are this ignorant.

Of course they aren't, though. General Tyr says the Midgardians  _ worship  _ them. And they couldn't have forgotten the war, being only a few centuries ago when they saved them from the  _ Frost Giants. _

Loki shifts his eyes around the room warily.    
  
"Is that some sort of jest?" he asks, waiting for Thor or maybe Fandral to jump out and tackle him because he fell for something so stupid again and see how he likes a taste of his own medicine and now they'll have to stitch him up again and again and again because he hasn't finished his punishment yet.

"What? No, I've just never heard of..." Steve's voice trails off, which must be the cue, so Loki braces himself for the punchline.

Patience isn't quite Thor's style, though, so it seems odd that he's drawing this out like so.

Perhaps it is not one of Thor's friends. General Tyr himself perhaps? He always has liked to sit down and really savour the entertainment. Though it is not too often that he cares enough about Loki to do something like this.

Not a lot of people like Loki (Loki is not very likable, they say he must be insidious or at least an omen) so it's hard to tell. It could be anyone.

Or maybe it's not a prank of any kind, and merely another of Father's lessons.

That seems the most plausible because how else would he get to be on Midgard in the first place?But what would the lesson even be?

"Is this a trick?" he asks Steve, and wonders if the Midgardian's name is even really " _ Steve. _ "

The boy just looks confused.

"Why would it be a trick? I just wanna know what that thing you said is."

Perhaps he should just play along. He will get a  _ lesson _ anyway, and this is frustrating.

"Nevermind," says Loki, and forces his hands to stop fidgeting. "Asgard is the highest realm on Yggdrasil, of course. Protector of the Nine Realms. My father is Odin Allfather, the  _ King _ of Asgard," he pauses briefly and bites his lip before flinching. His lips still hurt too much, a sharp, warm sensation dulled only by the hours since its affliction.

He takes a shallow, whistling breath and lets it out.

Loki does that (biting his lip) a lot when he's nervous; it's a terrible habit which both Mother and Father dislike because it makes his anxiousness  _ show _ . So perhaps this is just another, more minor part of the lesson. His father is a wise king, after all.

"What's the  _ Egg- Drizzle _ ?" echoes Steve, looking even more baffled than before. "And  _ Allfather _ ?"

Loki is too stupid for this lesson. He does not understand what he's supposed to be doing at  _ all. _

" _ Yggdrasil," _ he corrects, "The World tree which connects each of the Nine Realms. Asgard, where Father rules and protects all at the top of the branches. You, Midgard, in the middle of course. All the way down to Urd, Jotunheimr, and Niflheim, the three roots. Father is the Allfather because he is the King of Asgard and therefore protector of each realm."

He's not looking at Steve whilst he talks, which is rude, mortal or not, and shows even more weakness, so he raises his eyes from his bowl on the table and steals a glance at Steve's expression, just briefly.

"Erm," Steve responds, after a minute or so, frowning. "Okay. I think I understand."

He doesn't, Loki can tell. He doesn't even believe Loki, even with something that is just common knowledge. But Loki just nods, because he's tired and he doesn't want to talk anymore. It's probably just another lesson he's failed because Loki has been too lazy to learn it.

As usual.

Midgardians, it seems, are ignorant and stupid of even the most basic of things, or at least good at pretending to be. And maybe it is  _ that _ which is the jest or the lesson, because Loki should fit right in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet ya'll weren't expecting THIS, huh?  
> Massive thanks to @fine-i-give-in for speed beta-ing this! Funnily enough this fic is what began this super awesome friendship :D
> 
> Happy Halloween!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoot.

They're at Bucky's, rummaging through his dad's old toolbox for something heavy duty that can cut through metal. Specifically, two-inch thick cuffs. Beside him, Steve sees Bucky run his hand through his hair in frustration.

"What d'ya need these for again, buddy?"

"Helpin' out a friend," he says, shrugging and fighting the urge to stuff his hands into his pockets.

He's not lying or nothing like that, but he's gotta admit, the idea of keeping anything from Bucky, his best friend in the world, really kinda… sucks.

His friend snorts. "Listen, Pal, you better not be getting mixed up in some shit again."

At this, Steve has to grin and nudge him playfully, "You know you couldn't stop me,” he returns, even though he knows Bucky, for all his jokes, is actually being serious. "And it's not. Not really."

"Not really? It either is or isn't, Steve. And the other side of the line is too risky for it to be blurred."

Steve doesn't reply to this and allows himself to continue inspecting the pair of bolt cutters in hand. Just a tad rusted. Might not be big enough, though. Still, he stows it in his pack just in case.

He knows Bucky is only worried about him, which is nice. It feels good to be cared about. But, most of the time, it gets just a little too much. Besides, it's not as though Bucky has any room to talk. Most of the kids in the neighbourhood get mixed up in stuff they're not supposed to. He delivers messages from time to time to earn a buck (heh) or two, which isn't strictly against the law, but not really a perfect citizen by any means. Certainly not safe.

It's about 5:00 P.M. now, but it's summer, so it hasn't even begun to get dark yet, though he's gotta be heading back home soon. It's only a ten minute walk, but he'd rather be earlier than later.

There's another clunk behind him. It's not a nice sound, creaking metal. Bucky holds out a saw triumphantly. "This oughta do it, whatever you need it for."

And Steve has be the rational one this time and shout "No," because he'll be damned if that thing goes near a kid. "I'll explain later. Come for dinner?" he says in lieu of a response when Bucky starts to complain loudly later, about how nothing here is apparently good enough for Steve fricking Rogers.

On the way home, Bucky starts rambling about Faye Hewing who sits behind him and has nice hair. Steve nods and listens as always but is thinking about other things instead.

It's been almost a week since Steve met the boy. (And he still has nightmares that are probably not gonna go away soon. He can't even say he's ashamed of it.)

His name is Loki. Loki Odinson.

It's not a name from around here, certainly, but he's sure there are stranger. It had taken them a while to pry the name out of him. The first came easily enough, but they're not sure about the second. Apparently, he hadn't known what was meant by a surname but it was easily rectified when Steve's ma had explained to him it was a name taken from your father or sometimes mother, like Steve's. 

Even if it's stranger still when Loki asks why he does not go by Sarahson. But it makes Steve laugh and his ma say it would be nice if he did. 

"Oh." Bucky says, when they're just about to reach the building. His face is pressed into a scowl. "This is about your new friend, isn't it? The one with the weird name."

Steve pivots and tries his best to stand tall despite the difference. "Not my story to tell, Buck. But yeah. It's about him."

According to Loki, who apparently cannot even remember how he turned up in that alleyway, it was Dwarves that sewed his lips shut. Something about making a deal and having to honor it, even if he was the one that tricked them in the first place...? Yeah. He doesn't really get it either. Also, according to Loki, he comes from another realm called Ass Guard or something (which Steve totally didn't make fun of) and is over five centuries old. So. Yep.

That isn't at all worrying. Sarah Rogers totally doesn't need to double and triple and quadruple check his head for any injuries.

Yep.

If you get past all of that, Loki's actually quite good to hang out with. Even though he must be a little younger than Steve, he is at least just as intelligent if not a bit more. Sharp as a tack and endlessly curious, if a bit arrogant. It's nice. Nice to have another friend other than Bucky, even if he's a little delusional and calls Steve "mortal.”

Speaking of Bucky, he hasn't told him much about Loki yet, only that he'd made a new friend and that his name was a bit weird (to which Bucky had replied, "What? Worse than mine?" Which it wasn't, not really, just a different weird.) Ma had told him after not to speak of him anymore. Not yet.

And it's not like they can send him back. Ma's already pretty much decided there's nowhere to send him now. Not without any money anyways, and they're short on that as is. But in the state he's in and the fact he looks about ten and despite all the check-ups for head damage, he's definitely had a bash or two and he doesn't seem to have much of a family or anywhere to go. They aren't about to kick him to the curb. So basically, they're keeping him.

Anyway, after a week of not-begging from Bucky and Steve convincing Ma to let Bucky come meet Loki (because they're gonna meet soon enough) and Loki being somehow nonchalant about the whole situation, it's finally agreed.

Steve presses the buzzer twice to let the boy know he's home and then let's himself in with the key. The front door of his block is a heavy concrete slab which you'd think would be good, but in reality is mostly useless and a pain considering it's hard to open and closes with shrillest of screeches against the floor.

"He up there?" asks Bucky, helping him lock it behind them.

Steve nods and guides him up to their floor. He needn't guide though; Bucky knows this place just as good as his hand. Or the back of it, however the saying goes — point is, he's familiar.

By the time they reach the doorstep to the Rogers's household, which is three arduous flights of stairs up(and c'mon, he has short legs and asthma) the door is open and Steve sees Loki peeking out behind it. (So much for "Who you mortals show me to is of no concern," huh.) If Steve didn't know better, he probably wouldn't see a thing, but a week with someone smaller than you is enough to make him spot the mop of meticulously groomed, inky black hair.

"Hey, Loki, we're home."

Loki straightens his back smoothly, representing himself as the prince he pretends to be.

"Welcome home, Steve," he greets pleasantly, perfectly composed before turning to Bucky. "You must be Bucky. It's a delight to meet you. I am Loki, second prince of Asgard."

Bucky shakes his hand firmly — which is something Loki knows how to do now, Steve spent all of ten minutes yesterday teaching him when and why and how — and gives him a glance. Years of experience has taught him it means something like, 'get a load of this guy.'

Which is true, he supposes. He's a real piece of work for a kid — even a _ five hundred year old _ kid. Plus, he has this accent which Steve discovered on the third day after he'd welcomed Steve home from school. All polished and cultured and all that. Not from around here, certainly. Hudson Valley or Washington Heights or something like that, and even then. But definitely not the dingy Brooklyn alley he was found in.

It's a turn-around from when he met Steve a week ago, that's for sure.

(Well, to be fair, he did throw up on him.)

"I made dinner." Loki says a moment after, which brings him back to the present and the smell that's reaching his nostrils. Never smelt anything like it before; it's different, but a good different. "Or rather, I'm making dinner." He amends, rolling the sleeves up from his borrowed shirt.

Steve winces when Bucky catches sight of the cuffs. Bright, silver, hexagon-shaped shackles fastened tight, heavy and solid on Loki's thin, bony, kid wrists.

"For a friend, huh?" mutters Bucky under his breath.

And he can only shrug back. He seems to be doing a lot of that lately.

They follow him to the kitchen. Trailing the scent of whatever that is. You know, for a self-proclaimed kid prince, he seems to have some surprising skills. Well, Steve ain't complaining.

Loki is stirring a pot of thick reddish sauce with potatoes, onions, and carrots; and dips a teaspoon into it before holding it up for them to taste. It's strangely hot on his tongue and makes his throat tingle in a good burning way, and packed full of flavor.

"Oh," he says, mostly to himself, "That's quite good." before going in for another taste and handing the spoon to Bucky, demanding he taste it, too. "What is it?"

Loki seems to have to think for a moment before shrugging. "Curry, I think. Your neighbour, Lady Khatri, taught me how to make it yesterday."

At this Steve pauses, frowning. "I thought Ma told you to stay in the house? You should have said something yesterday!" He's not mad. Really, he's not, but not all his neighbours are as open to newcomers showing up as the Patels are. It's a close-knit community, and the people here are right to be wary.

In a manner much too casual for this, Loki shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, and gives him a look which says clearly, 'I do what I want.' It would fool Steve, except he notices the way his fingers grip the handle of the wooden spoon he's stirring with much tighter, and sees his shoulders tense.

He's notices it the same way he has for the past week, whenever someone raises their voice just a little too loud. Or takes on the tone Steve's voice was just now. Or when someone moves just a little too fast and sudden in his direction.

It's hardly surprising given the state he was in when Steve found him — in fact, it’s more surprising that it's not looking worse — but it still makes Steve want to punch something.

Steve sighs and runs his hand through his hair a few times as though the action might relieve the tension in his body.

"Look, it's okay. I'm glad it turned out fine and now we have this delicious stew-thing to eat for dinner. Just... maybe be careful next time, okay? Ya never know what mighta happened." He says instead, thinking about his words carefully.

"If it pleases you."

It's harder than he thought, talking to Loki. Don't get him wrong, he likes it — it's just hard, like walking on eggshells or something.

Steve's never had a little brother before, but he thinks it might be a bit like this.

Behind them, he feels Bucky watching them, silent and passive, taking it in. And Steve has known Bucky since they were in their cradles and babbling mindlessly to each other, so he can tell how hard Bucky is thinking.

"The curry will be ready in about two minutes. I suggest you prepare the serving dishes whilst you wait. What time will your mother be home, Steve?" Loki says after a moment, turning his back on them to fully face the stove.

The sight is a bit ridiculous because Loki is like ten and standing on a stool in order to reach the stovetop, and the apron he's wearing reaches his ankles.

Steve glances at the clock on the wall, "In about three hours. If you leave it on the stove, she'll know to heat it back up, I guess."

At that, the boy seems to narrow his eyes a little, squinting and pressing his lips together. Even though he nods, Steve feels as though his face is being studied like one of those spot the difference puzzles.

It's probably nothing.

So, they leave Loki to his cooking and grab cutlery, bowls and a half-burnt tea towel to place the pot on and wait.

And then Bucky glances back towards the kitchen door and turns back to gaze at him intently. Studying him.

"So," he begins, tucking his hands into his pockets, "What's the story?"

It makes him want to laugh and cry all at once because he can hardly stand to think of it, no less tell it.

"Oh, Buck," he says instead, stalling. "Not sure if you'd believe me if I said, and if you did, pretty sure you'd regret asking."

"Try me."

But see the thing is, Steve doesn't want to try him. Doesn't want to try at all.  Doesn't think he can stomach it.

"Maybe it's not my story to tell."

"Bull. You were there, weren't ya?"

Steve's about to open his fat mouth and tell Bucky that yes, he was there and maybe that still doesn't make it his story, when Loki comes out of the kitchen, carrying the pot which is much too big for his skinny little frame. He slams the pot on the table and meets their stares.

"I can hear you, you know."

And scoops himself a generous helping of potatoes and carrots and flicks off the onions.

As it turns out, it maybe doesn't matter who tells the story. It makes dinner, however delicious it is, rise back up his throat. Perhaps it is actually worse, when Loki tells it.

It begins a little further back than meeting Steve, even if the details seem a tad unlikely — like how he'd made some bet with Dwarves. Bet his fricking head on some stupid crazy inventions.

But the outcome is still the same.

"Who makes a bet on a kid's life?" yells Bucky, after getting over his rant about  _ Dwarves _ . "What are you? Like ten or something?"

Loki snorts, eyes narrowing sharply. "Five and a half centuries " he corrects, "I am not some squirming babe."

And that's a whole other ballgame.

Anyway, apparently "the bet" was lost — which Loki is still kind of angry about because maybe he should have won, who knows? Perspective is everything — and clever Loki says that he bet his head, not his neck and saves his own freaking life.

Steve notes the way he spits the word "clever" like it's an insult.

And then, because of his apparent deceit, the king, who is his own father by the way, allows the Dwarves to seek their retribution. Because it's only fair.

"It was justified," Loki says after a moment, "Even if I still think I should not have lost the bet in the first place. A mistake on my part, I suppose. And anyway, a fair king must be diplomatic, even at the expense of his own sons."

At this, Bucky and Steve both exchange a look, on equal parts shock and disgust and just general what-the-shit?

"He said to think of it as a lesson anyway, to learn to tame my tongue. Discourage it from running rampant again, you know?" he adds, after swallowing a mouthful of potato.

And no, they don't know. Hopefully, they never will.

Steve thinks Loki should maybe just stop talking until he thinks about what that might mean.

So, Loki got his lips sewn shut, and got the cuffs to inhibit his magic to stop from healing himself. Both Steve and Bucky ignore this bit because magic is just a  _ little _ too far over the line.

He still has to go to all the evening feasts and attend his lessons with tutors and trainers too. For three days. The punishment was supposed to last a fortnight, apparently, which doesn't make much sense because Steve's pretty sure Loki would be dead.

The humiliation is supposed to be part of it, too, but Loki slides past this part quickly and smoothly, as though it's irrelevant. Even though it seems pretty freaking relevant to Steve. He doesn't say anything, though, just lets him talk. He glances over at Bucky, who's looking pale and listening intently to Loki's every word, and shaking with what looks like rage. He catches his own hand doing the same and tries to still it because he sees Loki’s eye drifting towards it, every now and then.

And then, Loki continues, he'd been running away from Thor and his friends. Thor, his brother, and most definitely not in fear, only because they were annoying him. Of course. He isn't a  _ coward _ . Whilst running away, something had caught his eye. Something dark and shadowy like a veil, and he'd followed it. Tugged it open and slipped into its folds. Followed its path forward.

Which was about the time he suddenly found himself on Midgard, and met Steve, his path back suddenly gone.

Steve takes what he can from this fantastic story and concludes that Loki must have come from some sort of creepy cult or something, which actually kind of explains a lot. Not everything — but come on, the kid's like ten; maybe his coping strategies involve fantasy delusions.  Anyway, it's enough to paint a grotesque picture, even uglier than before, somehow.

Steve, against his better judgement, helps to fill in parts for the next bit.

And that's that. Loki's been staying here for a week now and Steve's ma's been working a few more shifts again, because she'd rather start now than drown in it later. Bucky's got younger siblings, so he understands, right? Anyway, it's not so bad — at least they know they've got nice neighbours who apparently won't ask questions. At least it's better than the alternative and just leaving them there.

"So," Loki says, folding his hands and bringing them to the present, twisting his fingers anxiously, "Did you — Have you found something for the inhibitors?"

Ah yes. The inhibitors.

Which inhibit Loki's magic. Because Loki has magic.  _ Right _ .

Steve swallows heavily and hears Bucky cough awkwardly. He's sure they'd laugh in any other case, except it doesn't matter that Loki doesn't have magic or that he claims to have come from another realm or that fairy tale creatures did this to him. None of that matters. Not really.

Bucky stands abruptly, shuffling his feet, and mutters to them that he'll go fetch the tools they collected earlier, leaving Steve to stew in this awkwardness with Loki.

Loki licks his lips. Winces.

Because what matters is that Loki was found alone in an alleyway with  _ his damn mouth sewn shut _ , and he has shackles on his wrists like he's damn criminal. And that he thinks all this has some sort of weird justification to it which somehow makes this okay. He's a kid.

Steve can't speak, and almost has to fish out his inhaler, because suddenly the air seems too hot and shallow. It's been a week and he's still just so angry.

Opposite him, is Loki shifting on his seat and watching him warily again. It's the silence, Steve thinks, tense and awkward, but Steve doesn't know how to fill it.

Soon enough, Bucky comes back, lugging the pack over and emptying its contents on the table.

“Thank God we didn't bring the saw,” jokes Bucky lightly, but it seems to fall short on his lips, voice trailing off. Steve slaps him on the back anyway, and grabs the pair of bolt cutters, which he thinks are their best option.

“Ready?”

As soon as the blunt blade of the cutters touch his cuffs, Loki pulls back in a hiss and mutters something under his breath about his father.

On closer inspection, they don't appear to be doing anything out of the norm, except when they try again, Loki flinches and his breathing rattles through gritted teeth. There's the smell of burning flesh in the air.

Considering the thread that was on his lips, it's hardly a surprise.

"Keep going," Loki bites out, "It'll heal." And glares at the unamused expression on the older boys' faces.

Steve weighs each of his options and goes to fetch one of his old t-shirts for Loki to bite on. He tells Bucky to get Ma's medical supplies and a basin of cool water from the bathroom and for Loki to sit tight.

It's probably a bad idea. Okay, scratch that, it's a really bad idea, but it's now rather than later and Ma will probably be too tired to deal with it when she comes home. Loki's knee is bouncing steadily with anticipation and his eyes keep darting between the window and the bolt cutters. He dunks his entire arm in the basin and Steve has to try to tune out the loud hiss the water makes turning to steam on contact.

Bucky is strung up tense, back ridged and fists clenched, and keeps repeating how they shouldn't be doing this, they should wait, think about what they're doing, and looks like he'd rather be anywhere other than here. The idea settles convulsively into his blood like rust because this is like a second home to Bucky. He should never feel uncomfortable here.

The t-shirt Bucky has chosen is clean but slightly ratty and frayed from age. He scrunches it up and, after a moment's hesitation, Loki takes it and stuffs it in his mouth. And nods.

All too quickly, Steve feels his nose being clogged up with the scent of bubbling skin, blistering and peeling (it smells strangely, he notes in some disconnected part of his brain, like chicken, shallow-fried.) Loki is gripping his knees so tight, his nails have drawn blood. Bucky’s hands close around his, and they squeeze the cutters shut together.

It's too hot in here. In the flat. Stuffy. Or maybe that's just them. Or maybe that's just whatever the hell this is.

There's a sizzling noise like when one pours hot oil in a pan, or sausages and bacon. Perhaps after this Steve should become one of those vegetarians.

It takes an hour before they finally give up. Steve doesn't even bother to look at the Loki’s once pale, still skinny, burnt to the bone wrists, and the flesh which might have been cauterized, except it's just burnt adhered to the metal. He just closes his eyes and pinches his nose.

Doesn't throw up, though, so it's an improvement.

He doesn't look at Bucky either. Bucky who only came to meet Steve's new friend and not to watch some horror show. Bucky who has to patch Steve up at least twice a week and this is how he's repaid.

This is fine.

“Shall we, heh, take a break?” breathes his best friend, shakily.

Oh hell, Steve thinks. Because Loki shakes his head  _ no _ , furrows his brows, and bites harder on the cloth, the lines on his forehead getting deeper.

“Well,” he hears himself say distantly, “You heard him.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Sarah Rogers returns home from over twelve hours work in the TB unit, she has three boys asleep in her living room — her son, his best friend, and a burn victim, apparently.

She touches his shoulder gently, and Loki bolts up awake immediately before his eyes settle on her face, her expression. She smiles gently, carefully soft.

“Lady Sarah,” he greets after a moment or so, “There is food — curry — on the stove. I made it.” And he offers her a tired but hopeful smile.

How can anyone harm a child? She thinks forcing down anger, how can anyone harm this child?

“I will heat it up for you?”

Sarah shakes her head and brings her hand up slowly to stroke his hair, making no sudden movements.

“No, I'm going to need to look at your arms first.”

She doesn't ask what's happened because one look at the placement of the burns — glistening pucid red skin, with bubbles of pus travelling down his elbows to the very tips of his fingers — and the thick cuffs made of bright metal (and apparently something else) gleaming innocently, still very much on his wrists, and the thick smell of burnt flesh cloying in her throat. On the carpet, a clumsily clattered pair of rusty bolt cutters lets her know all she needs.

“C'mon,” she says to the boy, picking up her medical kit which sits on the coffee table, “Let's take this to the washroom. I'll carry your bucket, too. You need to let your arms breathe for a bit anyway.”

She does not swear, as she wishes to. She does not scream or even allow her fists to clench. She cannot.

Instead, she gives a comforting smile (not a grimace,) and nods him towards the bathroom door.

The Rogers’s bathroom is small but not too small, big enough for a small tub, a toilet, and a sink - which is more than a lot of other folks have, for sure -  the whole room is sort of beige. And it's always, always clean. That's the one thing Sarah had to be sure of when she was looking for places. Affordable and clean. Steve having friends nearby was just a bonus.

Loki sits himself on the toilet seat and watches her intently as she rinses her hands free of any dirt and refills the basin with fresh water.

“How bad’s the pain, honey? Scale of one to ten?” She asks him, kneeling as she pats his arm gently with a towel and the water. It's a futile question, but she wants to make sure he keeps responsive.

The boy seems to think for a brief second, evaluating it seriously. “A three, I should think.”

Sarah cocks her brow at him questioningly, though she doesn't pause her hands. “A three? Looks at least an eight to me," she responds, casually, and tries to keep her horror to herself. He doesn't need that.

He shrugs, unnervingly nonplussed. It almost seems like he doesn't care.

There's not much she can say in response to that, at least not right now. Sarah rummages for a bandage to dress the blisters which have opened, in order to prevent infection. Something cold settles over her chest, a cold merciless anger.

She thinks about how her Steve and her Bucky had to see this. Had to — not cause it, no — induce it. Thinks about how they're sleeping next door and how Bucky has younger siblings: Rebecca (who must be about Loki’s age) and tiny Marlene. She doesn't want to think about everything that they must be thinking of. But Sarah’s a mother, so she must — they are her children, after all.

(And God, she wasn't even here for it. Only for the aftermath.)

The cuffs are still on his wrists, the silvery metal glinting under the dim filament light of the room, thicker than his wrist maybe thrice.

She rolls up her sleeves.

She doesn't let herself think of anything beyond the wound and the patient, and being patient and gentle in her movements. Doesn't let herself over-analyse the way Loki’s eyes seem to glaze over as though he's somewhere different, or his flinches when the bandages touch his skin. There's plenty of time for that later once they've finished.

Right now, Sarah Rogers has work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doot doot.
> 
> (Thanks again to my amazing beta @takethatusername <3 <3)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta

Things seem to have settled, a little. Loki has grown used to the mundane normalcy of it all, even though he has had to grow used to staying in the flat whilst Steve and Bucky are at school and Lady Sarah is at her job as a healer.

“I know your family are assholes,” begins Bucky, ignoring the startled look from Steve at the supposed curse word and Loki's own at the slander. “But there isn't anyone looking for you at all, is there?”

Loki looks away from the game, chess it is called, similar in style to  _ tafl _  on Asgard, which Steve and Bucky are teaching him, and they aren't all that bad, even though Steve sometimes tries to bend the rules somehow. He swallows.

“No,” says Loki, and fights the urge to look out the window and glare up at the sky again. “If there was they would have come for me. I'd already be gone.”

“You sure?” asks Steve, concerned, but moving his pawn forward anyway.

“Positive.”

In turn, he moves forward his rook to capture one of Steve's bishops. They're deep in concentration, mostly silent except every so often Steve will groan out of frustration and Bucky will give advice to either side here and there. The sky is orange and red by the time the game ends, a win for Loki, by some miraculous means with his five remaining pieces to Steve's nine. Bucky cheers and says he'll bring him back a treat from the bakery down the road, except he has to leave and get home before the sun sets and it gets dark properly.

It's all very cheerful, and much more the kind of cheer that is to Loki's tastes than was on Asgard, and totally in tune with just about every other day here. Blissful. He almost wishes he could stay here forever.

“Hey,” says Steve, once Bucky has left and they're putting bread in the oven to make toast for dinner. “You sure those jerks who—“ and he pauses and Loki notices him wince. “You sure they aren't looking for you? If they are you know you gotta say, right?” He raises his hand and runs it through his hair, looking stressed and tense suddenly. Loki takes an anxious step back.

“As I said,” and Loki forces his voice not to shake, “I highly doubt they are looking for me. Heimdall, Father — the Allfather — would have found me by now and I would be gone, if they wished it. It is simply, I suspect, that I have not yet earned it, of cour—”

“ _ Damn it, Loki, _ ” yells Steve, and this time Loki flinches back so harshly the sharp corner of the counter is suddenly stabbing his spine so Loki flinches  _ again _ . “Of course _ ,  _ you don't deserve to go back! They were awful to you! Why would you even… why would you even  _ want  _ to go back?”

The kitchen is small, and cramped and a little cluttered. It's dark because the lamp isn't working properly and the only light is the one from the gaslamp in the sitting room through the open kitchen door. The heat coming from the oven feels too dry and hot and Loki isn't listening to anything Steve is saying beyond “ _ damn it, Loki.” _

Oh, it's been a bit since he last heard that and he hasn't missed it, he's got to say.

Because, what? It's been a little over a fortnight and they're already sick of him?  _ Of course they are _ , says a voice in his head and he doesn't try to fight it.

_ I see _ , he thinks. Perhaps he should apologise and go find some other Midgardians to inconvenience, until Father deems it time for his return. Or would that only be spreading the problem?

_ Damn it, Loki— _

He digs his nails into his palms.  _ Why can't you be more like Thor? _

_ Damn it, Loki— _

He leans back into the hard angle of the counter once more, letting the sharp ache ground into him.  _ Why must you be so difficult, all the time? _

_ Damn it, Loki— _

He doesn't realise he isn't breathing properly until he smells the bitter scent of burning toast, and Steve's voice begins to reach him, somewhat distant.

“Hey, Loki. Hey, Lokes… It’s okay. It's okay. You're fine, just breathe, okay? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled at you,” Steve is saying, slowly, softly, and Loki recognises the effort he makes to keep a little distance and move slowly too. “You're okay, Lokes. It's just me, Steve, and our toast is burning. You're in the kitchen with me. You're safe.”

_ Safe,  _ Loki registers bitterly, nobody is ever, truly, safe. 

“I'm going to take your hand now,” says Steve, and slowly, Loki allows Steve to take his hand and place it on the other boys chest. “ You're going to breathe, with me. Ma and Bucky do this with me all the time when I have asthma attacks and stuff like that. You're fine.”

Gradually, after a few still seconds, the buzzing at Loki's ears which he hadn't noticed before leaves, and his surroundings start to melt around him, fading back in. Loki breathes.

He should probably feel embarrassed at such a display of weakness, Allfather will certainly  _ not _  be proud, but as it stands, suddenly all Loki feels is tired. He just wants to lie on the sofa, face down, and disappear.

“The toast is burning,” is what he says, once he finally comes back to himself.

Steve seems to sigh in relief. “Extra flavour, I guess?” 

* * *

The lights have been turned off for at least an hour now. Lady Sarah and Steve have long gone to bed (there is only one between them), and Loki lies on their beaten, old sofa, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. There’s a fraying fleece blanket pulled up over him, thick and soft still, even as worn as it is  He's wearing the same, plain Midgardian clothing Steve found for him the second day, which has been in rotation with another two outfits since he's been here.

It's been two weeks since he arrived. Fourteen nights since he first stumbled onto Midgard and into the unlucky sights of Steve Rogers. Seventeen since the dwarves and the damned bet.

Outside, at night time, the city is as bustling as ever somehow, the frenzy encapsulated by the night sky domed over the city. All the sounds seem to blend into each other and it seems to stretch from everywhere.

He sighs.

There's very little hope that this will work, but he holds on anyway.

Slowly, he sits up, taking another breath, and then one more, before he stands and drifts silently, quickly, towards the main door.

He slips the small letter he wrote, almost two weeks ago now, into the pocket of Lady Sarah’s good coat. If he had his magic, he’d gift her something better. Transfigure the whole place into a palace from the inside and make sure they’d have more than enough beds to sleep on. He’d summon Lady Eir herself, if he could, to remedy Steve of all that ails him. They have been good to him, even without the knowledge — or at least the belief — that they house the Prince Loki of Asgard.

Maybe he will come back someday, within the century of course, knowing how little time mortals have, and thank them properly.

It’s been a mere fortnight and yet Loki is sure he will miss them and their…softness. Aside from when they were trying to aid him, he has not been punished once since he’s been here. Not once have they attempted to strike him, or deceived him into some harm for his own good, or so much as raised their voice. Even as he is, even though Loki knows, even though Father and all of Asgard know, he deserves it. He is tricky, deceitful and conniving, and it is cruel and manipulative to take advantage of their ignorance.

He will miss them and their unjust kindness.

That is to say, if he manages to leave at all. Two weeks here must be enough, surely?

Well-used and well maintained, the lock turns easily and with only a soft click. Loki holds his breath and opens the door softly, conscious of how it scrapes against the floorboards, steps through and shuts it just as softly behind him. Okay. He can do this.

He hasn’t been in the neighbourhood very long, but he gets the picture that, from the way Steve and his friend Bucky speak, it is not the sort an unaccompanied and unfamiliar child should wander about at night. So he must be quick, and careful.

He wishes he had his magic.

It’s several flights of stairs down to the ground, but it doesn’t take long. As soon as he makes it out, he shivers. Unconsciously, he twists at the cuffs weighing down his wrists, quickly becoming chilled in the breeze, still very much there. Loki tries not to sigh.

Dark, and shadowy and illuminated, the streets feel quiet where he is, and yet he can hear people active within their homes still, even at this hour, sound tracing down the concrete blocks surrounding him. And perhaps just a little out of sight, a car passing through the streets, and even some people, midnight wanderers, Loki thinks, or those hoping to catch them. There's the faint smell of alcohol and burning herbs and urine permeating through the streets, and Loki steps back, hurriedly, into some other shadow. There’s nobody around, though.

_ All right. _  He swallows, trying to steel himself.  _ Please. _

“Heimdall,” he begins, and his voice sounds weak to his own ears. “Heimdall, open the Bifrost.”

The wind picks up a little, and a few strands of hair blow into Loki’s eyes, the gust whistles in his ears and bounces off the crumbling walls. Loki is acutely aware of how thin the cotton of his shirt is, and the lack of shoes on his feet. He didn’t want to take anymore than he already has, the Rogers have very little as it is, after all.

“Heimdall.” This is useless. “Open the Bifrost!”

There’s no reply, like yesterday, and the day before, and the days before.

“Tell Father I’m sorry. Tell him I’ll train harder, and pay more attention in lessons, and I’ll try harder to listen, I’ll stop running my mouth! I’ll clean his armour for a month! A year! I can be good! Please, I— I’ll do anything! Just let me come home.”

Something cold and sticky from the building next to him drips wetly on his feet and Loki flinches.

“Please.”

There’s no reply.

Loki shivers once more, lets himself sigh, just once, and goes back inside. New York is loud, but it feels so, so quiet.

* * *

 

"You gotta stop calling folks Ladies and Lords and stuff, Lokes. Like, I know you think you're a prince and all that but people are gonna start thinking you're some sorta ponce." begins Steve at their fifth overly-speculative look. “And that doesn’t tend to go down well here, trust me.”

They're at the market buying some milk and other things for the week. It's a Sunday afternoon though, so it's busier than Steve would have liked. But the sun is up, so at least it's warm.

Loki stops short, and Steve almost trips over himself at the abruptness of it. "I  _ am  _ a prince." He says quietly, staring fixed on the dirt of the pavement.

"Uh-huh. Sure."

At this, Loki flits his eyes at him sharply. Squints. "You don't believe me."

He shrugs at the boy, trying to tread lightly, tightens his grip on the grocery bag in his hands.

"Well," he says carefully, looking anywhere bit at him because it suddenly feels awkward, "you did show up a bit outta the blue. And, well, you know." He struggles, not knowing how to say it. "And I ain't ever heard of Ass Guard-"

" _ Asgard." _  Loki corrects, even though it sounds just the same.

"Yeah, that, and I ain't some geography whizz or anything but none of it's doing you any favours." He's rambling now, sure, and maybe it would be kinder to give Loki his fantasy, but it would be better for everyone in the long run if Steve just said it.

Besides, even if Loki  _ is  _ a prince it doesn't really matter anymore. There's no way he's going back to wherever he was before, even if it was royalty and Steve and his Ma are dirt poor. No way in hell.

Loki is silent now, just thinking. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. And Steve sees Loki, a scared little boy with seemingly no family (maybe mild amnesia?) and aged too fast from being too weary.

"I see."

And he looks like he does see. Looks like his mind is going a mile a minute and Steve can’t seem to keep up (but he can damn well try.)

Loki glances at the list in his hand again, scrap of paper with stuff Mom told them to buy, and blinks hard thrice. Clears his throat.

"You alright there?" asks Steve stupidly, after a moment.

"Of course," lies Loki smoothly, not a crack in his voice, "We need to get flour. It's next on the list."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah 300 kudos... thank you so much
> 
> I'm doing femslash February this year so if you want to, send me an ask on Tumblr @mercialachesis 
> 
> <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know ur thoughts. i might add more but idk honestly.


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